one foot in front of the other
by lexiconophilia
Summary: in which dan is an amputee with severe ptsd and phil, his best friend and boyfriend, helps him to overcome his fears and infirmities and take this life by storm ((I saw the trailer for "welcome to marwen" and I'm already in love with steve carell's character so I thought I'd make an au outta that shit))
1. they never leave me alone

_Every day is the exact same._

 _The same sequence, the same bloody schedule; it never changes. It's like being trapped in a spiderweb: you can struggle and try to escape but in the end you've just made it worse. You end up dying there inside that silky prison, and that's how your story ends. Don't struggle, don't change, or else it'll go to shit: that's life, for me at least._

 _Every day yields the same fruit: none._

 _There's no result from my labour, no finish line. I can't see a light at the end of the tunnel, because hell, this tunnel might as well extend from one end of the universe to the other. I can't breathe because I'm underwater, and lord knows I can't swim for shit._

 _Every day is a struggle._

 _My life is a monotonous blur and it pains me to open my eyes in the morning. It sends a pang of agony through my hollow body every night to know that I'll have to wake up and do it all over again._

 _I wish I had died. I wish—_

"Dan?"

I lift my tired eyes from the sepia pages of the water-stained notebook and blow on the ink to dry it, placing my pen in the margin nearest to the spine and shutting it forcefully. My hand shakes with anxious tremors as the door swings open and hits the wall. I wince at the noise, and I stare up at him from my prison of pillows and blankets.

"Sorry, Bear," he clasps his hands together and scans the room. His eyes return to me, and I send a knowing glance his way. "Have you moved all day?"

I look down in defeat, and that's an answer that satisfies his query. He sighs, and closes the door with a careful grip, trying to make the click as silent as possible. He's had practice now, and manages to make the snap back of the handle almost mute.

He sashays over to the chest of drawers with the chipping paint and splintering wood and picks up one of the bottles. The lid hits the table with a plastic sounding thud and the sound of pills emptying into his palm hits my ears. The schedule on the table is missing a tick mark for today, the thirtieth of August, and I feel my heart sink a tad. I'd forgotten again.

That pill bottle closes and another three are opened: Zoloft, Wellbutrin, and Lamictal. My three kings of the pharmaceutical world. The doctors stopped adding on after these stopped working together. That was months ago; and I'm steadily getting worse. That's life for you: a steady decline into the abyss, I guess.

He picks up a red pen and ticks off today's medications for the morning, and carries a small cup of six pills over to me while also handing me my water bottle. I toss them back and cough at the sudden taste of pill capsules, and he pats my back like I'm a small child as I choke them down.

I feel like I'm drowning once again.

He fixes the glasses onto my nose and kisses my cheek, giving me a sympathetic smile as he runs a pale hand through my tangled mess of hair. I exhale and fog up both our glasses, and brown meets blue as our eyes lock for what seems like the first time in an eternity.

"You're getting better," Phil states in a whisper. "I promise you you're getting better."

He sounds like he's trying to convince someone...but the only person he's trying to convince is himself. I've heard the doctors speak—I'm not getting better, and I never will. I'm a lost cause, a burden. The words from my journal flood through my mind again.

They never leave me alone.

I scoff slightly and give him an absentminded bite of my lip. "Yeah, and who the hell is saying that?"

"Me," he answers, pecking my lips and standing up. He grabs something off the bedside table and turns back to me. "I'm saying that, Dan."

He hands me the something he picked up and I take it in my shaky hands. The day never truly begins until I'm reminded of what happened, what I lost, and the monster I am now. He can piece me back together all he wants, but I'll always be the same inside. I lift my eyes to meet his and he gives me an unsympathetic smile. He's learned that sympathy does nothing but discourage, and I hate that he ever had to adapt to...well, me.

"Doctor Harris called," he says, plopping himself down beside me. "It's time for a refill and a follow up. I scheduled it for tomorrow."

"Fan-fucking-tastic," I laugh as I die on the inside once again. My eyes become stone and I scoff. "And what if I don't want to go, Phil?"

"You're going," he demands, but in a pleading tone. "You have to go."

I chuckle, and take his hand. "I only go to these bleeding appointments where nothing gets solved and our finances go down the drain because I love you. Not because I think I will _ever_ get better."

"Then keep doing it for me!" He places a hand on the place just below the back of my neck and his sparkling eyes water. "If you give up, Dan, I'll never forgive you. You can't give up."

"Shouldn't you be filming?" I cut him off.

He just stares at me. "I guess I should. But the fans can wait, Dan."

"Don't you think they've been waiting enough?" I smile derisively—not at him but at myself. "Don't let them down like I did, Phil."

"I told them you're struggling with your mental health right now," he whispers. "And it's true."

"If I was 'struggling' it'd come to an end sometime." I shrug his hand off my shoulder. "This is terminal."

"Dan—"

"Go," I murmur. "Go film. I'll change my shirt and guest star. Just give me a few minutes and I'll make my way there."

He nods simply. "I'll pan the camera again."

I get a kiss on the forehead and he leaves the room, keeping the door open. I tug a random sweatshirt from the accumulated pile of clothes on my bed and inhale, peeling the "My Neighbour Totoro" t-shirt I've been wearing for three days straight over my head. My hand brushes against my torso accidentally and I look down. The white streaks are still raised like they're fresh, and the bruises never quite went away fully, as they're still a yellowish brown colour. I sigh and tug the fleece hoodie over my head, narrowly avoiding knocking my glasses to the floor.

I scoot to the edge of the wicker bed and pick up the silicone apparatus from the pillow. I lift the blankets to reveal my lower body and carefully push my leg stump into the prosthetic limb and flinch as the pin clicks, sending shivers down my spine. I put my house shoes on over my "feet" and grab my cane, pushing all my weight onto it to lift myself from the bed. As soon as my prosthetic is stabilised by the floor, I stumble and my real leg threatens to give out, sending me to the floor in a helpless heap.

As I limp through the hallway I wonder what it would be like if I hadn't survived. If I had died rather than lived. The familiarly annoying click of the metal joint matches the pressure on my soul from the weight of imperfection, and I stop. I lean against the wall and begin sobbing, staring through a kaleidoscope of tears at the buckling and shaking fake leg, a sorry excuse for what I've lost.

Hello. My name's Dan Howell, and I swear on my right leg and left stump that I wish I was dead.

 _Every single day is the exact same. He's the only thing that's dynamic, and if it wasn't for Phil Lester, I would have never woken up that day._


	2. nightmares? if only

"So, Dan, please describe your symptoms."

 _Screaming. Crying. Clawing, tearing, biting. Shaking, rocking, pacing. Wanting to leap out the window, Phil having to take all the razors and blades out of the flat and give them to a friend. The list goes on._

"The usual."

The doctor nods sympathetically and joys notes down on a piece of paper, which sounds like nails on a chalkboard to Dan. He grips the arm of the chair and Phil's hand rests on his good knee as it bounces up and down, just like his moods.

"Okay, anything else notable?" She inquires from her throne of pharmaceutical expertise behind a massive mahogany desk, separating her from the mentally unstable patients she sees.

Dan begins to shake his head, but Phil clears his throat. He rolls his eyes and throws one hand up.

"I guess the dreams suck," he mutters.

"Dreams?" She asks, obviously trying to pry more information from the man with dark circles beneath his eyes. He obviously doesn't take the hint, and begins tracing patterns into the faux leather with his fingernail. "Dan, could you describe these dreams to me please?"

He inhales shakily, and remembers the scene that unfolded behind his eyes just last night.

 _The smoke hadn't cleared. The ringing in his ears was deafening, but it let him feel something again. Rubble fell and the structures collapsed around him, creating a wall of debris, eliminating all natural light from the interstice he was trapped within. The light fixture had fallen upon impact, and mechanical shrapnel stuck out of his arms._

 _His eyes searched for light among the darkness, but found none. His voice sounded foreign as he called for help, as it was hoarse and sounded...broken. He tried to move his left arm, but failed at the first sign of pain. The bone was broken in at least three places if not completely shattered, and the metal sticking out of his skin didn't help. His right arm was mostly fine, though; and he used this to his advantage to try to claw some of the debris from his path._

 _He was pinned beneath the remains of what was probably the map of the London Underground System before the explosion. His hair was matted to his forehead by a thick sheen of sweat and blood, which dripped into his eyes every time he tried to move. That's when he heard it._

 _A voice—no, it was a scream. Not everyone had died._

 _His first instinct was to get to that person, to help them. Hell, if that person was in a better condition than him, they'd both have a better chance of survival than just being apart. The screams of pain coming from clear across the wall of stone and dust prompted his attempt at full body movement, and when he did, he realised that he had feeling in every limb but one: his left leg._

 _When he lowered his hand to his knee, he felt loose skin and a thick substance, but nothing below that. It was then that he knew he was going to die—he was going to bleed out, and die. He needed to say his goodbyes; his last words to Phil couldn't be "I'm going to the shops, I'll be back in an hour."_

 _The sirens closed in, and light illuminated his terror stricken face as he realised that death would've been the better option._

"Dan?"

It's Phil's voice that pulls him from his thoughts, and he quickly wipes the vulnerability and tears from his cheeks. Phil has tears in his eyes, too, and the doctor writes notes furiously. He hasn't even spoken about the dreams, and yet he's said everything he needed to.

The woman behind the desk hands Dan a slip of paper, and it contains a new medication he has never seen before. He cocks his head, and she quirks a small smile.

"It's zolpidem. It'll help you sleep without the dreams. And that other one is venlafaxine for your post traumatic stress disorder." She explains. "The doses are generous, so we'll see how it goes. This will help you, Daniel."

Phil rubs Dan's shoulder and he manages a smile. He shakes her hand and stands up with Phil's help, and makes his way to make the copayment on his new medications. Once done, the two make it to the cab as inconspicuously as possible, and Phil hands the cabbie an address.

"I'm happy she prescribed you new stuff," Phil kisses his cheek. "Hopefully this'll help you."

"Ah, you just don't want to put up with my shit anymore," Dan adjusts his prosthetic leg and chuckles.

Phil scoffs jokingly. "Untrue. I just want you to be as happy as possible, Howell."

"We've been dating for seven years, are we still calling each other by our last names, Lester?" He whispers. Phil nods and leans into his shoulder, and Dan looks out the window to be met with green trees and colourful flowers. "Hey, this isn't our flat, Phil."

The shorter man shrugs. "Well, I thought after that successful appointment we should celebrate by getting you into the joys of nature again."

"In a park?" Dan raises an eyebrow. "But, what if someone sees us—"

"I've got it covered," he waves Dan's anxiety off and kisses his nose. "Please, do this for me. I love you."

"I love you too." He murmurs.

Phil pays the driver, steps out of the cab, and makes his way over to Dan's side of the vehicle before opening the door and helping him step out. One foot in front of the other, the two make their way to a nearby park bench where they sit and watch the pigeons attack a piece of bread.

Dan's been on his antidepressants for nearly six months since the incident, and since they upped the dosage two weeks ago, life is starting to look up. He feels like his story is going to have a happy ending finally, two legs or not. Phil lays his hand across his boyfriend's prosthetic knee because there's practically nobody there, and Dan smiles into the touch.

Phil looks at him like he just saw a ghost or as if he has three heads, and Dan cocks his head. "What?"

"Oh, nothing; it's just..." Phil stammers. "Well, it's just that...you haven't let me touch you at all without flinching in six months."

Dan feels tears in his eyes and he leans into Phil's hand, which rests on his stubbly cheek. "Phil..."

"No," he shakes his head, "no apologies. And no tears. Only one tear. Just one—so make it a good one **(A/N: if you get that reference, I love you)**."

The feeling of being outside is so freeing, Dan gets lost in his own reality again. Who cares what people think? He leans his head on Phil's shoulder and thinks about what life has in store for them.

Sure, he's an amputee with a crippling mental disorder and a past nobody could ever shove away, but he's Dan fucking Howell. He has his fans, his boyfriend and best friend, and he has his right leg at least. He can't say he has his family, as they don't know what he went through that day at thirteen minutes after noon on a Saturday.

He lost all contact with his parents after he told them he was dating Phil, and was nearly beaten to death by his father for being a "filthy faggot and embarrassment to the family name," and he hasn't seen his brother in nearly three years, since his last visit to London from Scotland. They have no way of knowing of the incident, as Dan's name was never mentioned in the news report.

He was so dirt-caked and bloody that he was utterly unrecognisable, and was dubbed a John Doe until they found his phone.

When they realised he was a celebrity figure, they kept the information on the down-low to secure his privacy. Ten surgeries later, he's a mess of surgical scars and medical bills (most of which have been paid off, thank god), but god willing he's still breathing.

They sit and watch the kids playing, birds flying, and the water spouting from the fountain for twenty more minutes before Dan speaks up.

"Phil?" He asks nearly silently. Phil perks up and nods. "Would you ever marry someone with a lame ass prosthetic leg?"

Phil's breath catches in his throat and he exhales shakily. "Dan...of course I would. You know that—I love you so, so much."

"Well, I'm not getting down on one knee because I only have one left and lord knows I'll never get up again, but this is technically me popping the question," Dan nervously rambles, turning to look Phil in the eyes. "Philip Michael Lester, the most perfect boyfriend on the planet and my best friend for the rest of time, will you put up with my shit formally and marry me already?"

Phil's eyes water and he embraces his boyfriend tightly, nodding furiously as he pulls away. "Yes, Dan! Goddamnit, yes!"

Dan exhales deeply and places a hand over Phil's. He then grows wide eyed and reaches into his bag, where he finds a little black velvet drawstring bag. He opens it to reveal a silver band and slides it onto Phil's left ring finger.

"Wow, we are the exact same person, huh?"

The raven haired boy laughs and reaches into the "family backpack," pulling a similar looking red velvet bag, and retrieves a silver ring with a black centre band and takes Dan's hand, slipping the ring onto the same finger. Not surprisingly, both fit perfectly (they discussed this: Phil's ring size is 9 3/4 and Dan's is 10 1/2), and the two sat there on that park bench until the sun set.

Two men, a former ginger and his curly haired amputee fiancé: the perfect couple, even despite tragedy.

Dan still worries though: the nightmares he talked about at the appointment aren't just nightmares. They're his reality, and he wonders if he can be a human being with something that made him a whole person missing.

One day at a time.

 _10 June_

 _I got engaged to the love of my life, and I feel like I'm going to be okay. I can do this. We can do this. Plus, I'm way easier to pick up without a leg, which makes certain...aspects of our relationship a whole lot easier. I can finally sleep again._

 _I saw kids at the park today, and it made me realise two things. One: how much I want children but I don't want children who have a legless father; and two: how much I need to tell the fans what happened._

 _One day at a time. Today was a great day; hell, it was the BEST day._

 _Now, for tomorrow!_

 _My name is Dan Howell, and I have the best fiancé in the world and a super fucking badass prosthetic leg._


End file.
